


Merlin And The Very Bad Day

by annamatopia



Category: Merlin (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bigotry & Prejudice, Gen, Monster of the Week, Witcher magic, outside pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: All of it, the whole thing, started when Arthur insisted on going to fight a wyvern, alone, which of course meant Merlin had to go, too.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 312





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is SOMEWHERE in this fic that I forgot to add in a word and I can't for the life of me find where it is. Oops.
> 
> MANY MANY MANY thanks to Ellana for betaing for me and making sure the Merlin characterizations worked. It's been actual YEARS since I've seen the show, but I was struck by the writing bug and this wouldn't let go of me until I wrote it. 
> 
> I've been writing more Witcher fic if anyone is interested in seeing more.

All of it, the whole thing, started when Arthur insisted on going to fight a wyvern, alone, which of course meant Merlin had to go, too. At least he’d gotten to ride a horse—as much as he disliked riding, he liked walking far distances even less, so onto a horse he went.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Merlin said as they were drawing up on the village fields. It was an _incredibly_ bad idea, not least of which because Merlin would have a harder time protecting Arthur with no one else to distract him.

Arthur sniffed and pulled up his horse before dismounting. “Merlin, you’re just worrying for no reason. We’ve dealt with plenty of wyverns before, this one is no different.”

“And you had half a dozen knights with you each time!” Merlin scowled and hopped down with him. “All I’m saying is, you know that little voice in your head that tells you when you’re about to do something bad? You don’t have one!” He poked a finger into Arthur’s shoulder.

“Isn’t that what you’re for?” Arthur shrugged Merlin off. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re scared.” He dropped the horse’s reins in a ground tie and made his clanking way down the hill to the field where the wyvern had last been seen snatching sheep for dinner.

“Only scared for you,” Merlin muttered low enough that Arthur couldn’t hear.

Or so he thought. Arthur turned and clanked backwards, narrowing his eyes. “What was that, Merlin?”

“I _said_ —”

“Merlin! Don’t be like this—”

“Well if you weren’t such a—”

They were so busy arguing that they were taken entirely by surprise by an ear-piercing shriek that couldn’t possibly have belonged to any wyvern Merlin had ever heard before. A flying creature descended from out of nowhere, screeching, with the biggest claws Merlin had ever seen outside a dragon fully extended for a grab.

Merlin hissed a spell as Arthur swung at it; the magic glanced off the creature entirely, and this time it turned its attention on Merlin. When it spat at him, Merlin managed to dodge, but the spit sizzled in the grass beside him, smoking. He stared at it wide-eyed until the creature shrieked again. Arthur was hacking it from the side.

With one last screech, the creature swept back into the air as a yell sounded from behind them. Arthur and Merlin spun as one.

A white-haired man was sprinting towards them from the village. He could be heard distantly yelling, “Fuck—fucking shit!” He vaulted over the fence, sword in hand, and faster than Merlin thought possible he was on top of them.

“Get out of the fucking way!” the man growled. He shoved an indignant Arthur to the side just as the creature dove down again.

“I say—!” said Arthur, but the man kicked him straight in the knee as he tried to get up again, and the man took the full brunt of the creature’s plunge. Merlin didn’t know how he could’ve survived, but the creature bounced up and somehow, the man was still standing. He was able to roll away and land a blow on its back.

Then the man cursed loud enough for them to both hear as the creature’s viciously barbed tail whipped into him, sending him flying far back into the fence, which broke under the force of his fall. It dove after and reared over him, screeching like death.

Merlin shot Arthur a quick glance to make sure he wasn’t looking, then raised his hand—he couldn’t let their savior just _die_ , the creature was about to strike—

But just as the creature jammed its open beak down to break the man, he twisted his wrist and a golden glow shone around him for just a moment. The creature’s blow slid off, and Merlin gaped in amazement as the man abruptly thrust his sword into the creature’s chest with a yell. The creature screamed one last time and collapsed right onto the man.

Merlin’s breath caught in his chest. Magic? Sorcery? Somehow, the man had formed a shield that kept the creature from mauling him to death—he desperately hoped Arthur hadn’t seen.

Arthur finally pulled himself to his feet with a groan, hopping on one leg. “Merlin—help me—I think he dislocated my knee!”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Merlin said distractedly; when Arthur grabbed for him, he draped Arthur’s arm around his shoulder with no thought for carrying all that weight, and then he dragged Arthur to the corpse of the creature.

They stood there, silent, for a full minute before Arthur ventured tentatively, “Do you think we ought to move it?”

Merlin glared at him and resisted the temptation to dump him on the ground. “What do you think? Of course we should! We need to find out if he’s even survived!”

“On three then,” Arthur decided, and together they limped up to one side. Arthur managed to stand on his own two legs as they pushed; Merlin used a bit of magic on his side—what Arthur never found out wouldn’t hurt him. Together they got the creature rolled to the side to reveal the white-haired stranger.

On a second glance, Merlin realized he wasn’t nearly as old as he looked—he was closer to Sir Leon’s age than Gaius, though his beard was scruffy and hair untidy and he had a long, deep scar carved down the side of his face. The armor he wore didn’t look like it could have held off any creature let alone the one he had just fought; it was made of dark, thick leather with sections of chain mail stitched in. It was also covered in congealing black blood.

“Good lord,” Arthur said, eyes wide. “I do hope Gaius can fix whatever injuries he has. Don’t look at me like that, Merlin, of _course_ we’re taking him back to Camelot. My father will want to thank him in person for killing the wyvern.” Merlin shut his mouth, and they both looked skeptically to the creature. It certainly didn’t look like any wyvern Merlin had ever seen, and he’d seen plenty of them with Arthur.

“I don’t know,” Merlin started, remembering the golden shield that had repelled the creature, but the man groaned and pushed himself up, rubbing a hand over his face.

His eyelids flickered open, revealing yellow-golden cat eyes.

#

Merlin jumped, Arthur startled, and the man climbed to his feet, leaving heavily against the creature. He glared at them both with a low growl. “Why didn’t you fucking listen? You could’ve been killed!” 

Arthur held his ground. “Well, look where you ended up! If I hadn’t softened it up first, you’d have died!”

Merlin privately had his doubts about that; the man had clearly known what he was doing, while Arthur just flailed around with a sword.

“No need to thank me,” the man said, glaring at Arthur and looking annoyed at having to say so. Merlin noted with distant alarm that he wasn’t even _breathing hard._ He knelt to savagely wipe his sword on the grass before sheathing it. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to collect on this contract.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, contritely. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I should’ve listened,” he said, pursing his lips a little. “As for the wyvern—”

“Not a fucking wyvern,” the man grunted. He jerked out a long hunting knife and, to Merlin’s horror, he began sawing off the creature’s head. “Fucking basilisk.”

“What’re you doing _that_ for?” Merlin said, eyes widening. Arthur, too, scrunched up his nose, though they were both too captivated to look away.

“Proof of death.” The man straightened up, cracked his neck from side to side, and whistled shrilly. There was a whicker, and then from the far side of the field a brown horse trotted over, bobbing her head up and down before rubbing her face all over the man’s chest. “Stop that, Roach,” he chided, giving her a quick pat on the neck before heading to the saddlebags. 

Merlin looked at Arthur, and Arthur looked back. _Roach_ , Merlin mouthed when the man’s back was turned. The horse’s name was _Roach_. Arthur shrugged.

The man seemed to be methodically wrapped up the head, and then he strapped it to the saddle. The still-dripping blood didn’t bother the horse one bit.

After a moment, Arthur let out a deep breath and relaxed. “I truly do appreciate your assistance. I am now in your debt, for the help and the killing of this creature. Sir…?” With no further explanation forthcoming, Arthur prompted, “Whom do we have to thank for our timely rescue?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” the man said. He rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck from side to side, and Merlin noticed for the first time that he had _two_ swords strapped to his back, as opposed to Arthur’s one at his waist. And yes, that had been no trick of the light—Geralt’s eyes were a dull yellow, like a cat’s eye. His entire body and posture _screamed_ dangerous, run away, do not cross.

Arthur preened just a bit. “Arthur, if you will, and my manservant, Merlin.” He gestured to Merlin, who crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a bit defensive. “If you would like to accompany us back to the castle, I am sure you must be exhausted—” Geralt did not look the least bit fatigued now, just annoyed—“and in need of a good meal and rest.”

“Only here to collect the reward,” Geralt started, but Arthur plowed on, determined.

“As the king of Camelot, I am sure my father will want to properly reward you. We would be pleased to have you join us, and I can offer you a hot meal and a warm bed for the night.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked them both over with a critical eye, taking in Arthur’s whole appearance—the livery of Camelot, the gleaming armor, the costly weapons. There was, too, the unmistakeable air of royalty about Arthur, like everything was beneath him. “Your highness,” Geralt said after a long pause, with a slight dip of his head. “Pleased to meet you. I would be honored.”

Arthur offered a pleasant smile that might have been more pleasant had he not just argued with Geralt over the wisdom of interfering in the recent fight. “As I said, my father will be thrilled to hear of how you saved our lives today.”  


Geralt grunted and turned to look over the carnage. “We will need to burn the corpse,” he decided after a moment. “Or we will risk necrophages.”

Merlin cast a sharp glance at Arthur, who frowned. “Necrophages?”

“Ghouls, rotfiends, grave hags. Alghouls if you’re really lucky.” His tone implied that one would be most unlucky in the event of an alghoul. With that, he began single-handedly dragging the dead basilisk further away from the fence.

Arthur stared incredulously at him, and then at Merlin; Merlin didn’t know what to do except stare back. He hadn’t the foggiest idea what that meant either. He sidled up to Arthur and whispered, “What do we do?” Geralt was lugging the basilisk around with all the efficiency of someone who had done it before, and it was rather unnerving.

“I don’t know,” Arthur whispered back, eyes wide. He was still clearly reeling from the events of the past fifteen minutes. “We’ve never burned any of the other creatures we’ve killed. Or anything else, for that matter.”

Merlin lowered his voice even further. “Maybe I’d better ask Gaius what a necrophage is when we get back. I’m sure he’ll know.”

“Corpse eaters,” Geralt said mildly. Both Merlin and Arthur jumped; they hadn’t seen him approaching. “Drawn to dead bodies that haven’t been properly burned or buried. Still see them in graveyards sometimes, though.”

“Do we—can we help you in any way?” Arthur managed.

“No.” Geralt glanced pointedly down the field at Arthur’s horse. “You’d better catch your mount before it runs off.”

Arthur rushed over to do just that, grabbing the horse at the last second before it moved off to better, grassier prospects. Merlin watched him for a moment, unable to stop a smirk, then turned back to their new friend.

Geralt crouched before the makeshift pyre. He shifted something with his hands, twisting his wrist, and the wood caught on fire instantly. Merlin felt his heart stutter in the throes of panic—but no, Arthur hadn’t noticed. Merlin hissed and ducked down.

“Look,” he whispered urgently, “I have to warn you—you can’t _do_ that here.”

Geralt glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “Can’t do what?”

Merlin cast a frantic look at Arthur. “ _Magic_.”

Geralt snorted and stood. “Trust me, I’m no mage.”

“Well, whatever it was you did—” Merlin gestured to the growing fire. “Don’t do it again. Sorcery is banned in Camelot on pain of death.”

“Hmm.” Geralt tilted his head slightly, almost like a bird, and peered at Merlin.

They were interrupted by Arthur, who yelled and waved across the field for Merlin, and Merlin huffed a little. “I have to go. Just… remember what I said, okay?”

Geralt rumbled something unintelligible and turned back to his horse.

“ _Mer_ lin, your horse was about to run away. You should better take care of her, or maybe next time you’ll walk,” Arthur said loftily when Merlin trudged back, tossing Merlin the reins. Merlin, of course, fumbled with them.

“ _You_ walk,” he snapped as he struggled into the saddle.

Arthur’s eyebrows took a journey upwards. “What’s gotten into you?” He nudged his horse forward.

“ _Nothing_.” To be honest, Merlin couldn’t quite explain his own mood even to himself. He guessed he felt guilty over knowingly bringing a sorcerer to Camelot—with Uther’s recent executions and all the times Merlin felt he had gotten people killed over their magic. And despite the general… grouchiness, Geralt had without question saved their lives. 

Before Arthur could say anything further, Geralt’s horse overtook them and he quite casually said, “Is there a possibility of seeing the court mage?”

Arthur pulled up to a stop, and Merlin frantically hoped neither of them would say something stupid. “Sorcery,” said Arthur, slowly and deliberately, “has been banned in Camelot and is punishable by execution.”

“Is it,” said Geralt, looking not the least bit surprised; in fact, he looked as if he just wanted confirmation. “Fine.” But he touched a hand to the medallion around his neck, a wolf’s head, and glanced at Merlin.

A prickly feeling crept up Merlin’s spine and he resisted the urge to shudder.

#

Merlin wished he had enough time to run down to Gaius to blurt about Geralt’s magic and ask about necrophages, but alas, his hopes were dashed when Arthur dragged him to the throne room. “Do I _have_ to?” Merlin hissed at Arthur as he was being bodily forced down the hall.

“Of course. It wasn’t just _my_ life he saved, after all,” Arthur said loftily.

“You just want an excuse to not be there by yourself,” Merlin accused; Arthur didn’t dispute this. They had stopped by Arthur’s rooms to mop of the worst of the blood and dirt---or rather, for Merlin to mop up and Arthur to complain about it. Still, neither of them was in the best shape for a royal audience. His back was already hurting from all the bathwater he’d have to carry up later.

Geralt was waiting for them, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned up against the wall with the wrapped bundle at his feet, but he pushed away when he saw them and straightened. “Your highness, Merlin,” he said, nodding once.

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder on the way by. “Good to see you again, Master Geralt.”

“It’s just Geralt,” he muttered, but he moved to follow Arthur with the wrapped head in hand.

Uther had been expecting them. He rose from his thrown, dominating, and said, “Master Geralt of Rivia. I understand I have you to thank for the continued good health of my son today.” Merlin edged away from Arthur to get away from the spotlight.

Geralt inclined his head—he didn’t bow, Merlin noted, which might come back to bite him in the arse. “Right place, right time,” he said.

Uther sat once more, then tapped his fingers on the throne. “I suppose a reward would not go amiss, as thanks for saving my son.”

“I understand there was a reward for the basilisk—the creature’s head,” Geralt said promptly, producing a scrap of parchment. He held it out expectantly, and a nearby guard passed it to Uther. “The head, as you can see.” And he let the basilisk’s head fall out of the leather it had been wrapped in straight onto the floor.

Merlin grimaced. No one would ever be so forward with Uther. He glanced over at Arthur, whose eyes were wide as well.

“I do see,” Uther said dryly. He waved a hand in a _take it away_ gesture, and the guards hastily removed it. The flagstones were stained with black blood where it had sat. “Very well. The steward will take care of it for you.” From Merlin’s vantage point, he saw the steward scuttle out of the room, presumably to scrounge up the gold.

“Father,” Arthur started, but Uther held up a hand to silence him.

“We would also be pleased to have you join us this evening as the guest of honor and to offer you a room for the night,” Uther said. He managed to convey that this should be considered a great privilege on Geralt’s part.

“Wouldn’t say no,” Geralt said; he looked rather pleased.

With that, they were all summarily dismissed. 

Merlin slunk out behind Arthur, careful not to draw attention to himself, and took stock of everything that had happened since he and Arthur had set out that morning. They had gone out to slay a wyvern, which ended up _not_ being a wyvern, and they were saved by a not-knight in not-shining armor who had definitely used magic behind Arthur’s back to do it. Then there was the matter of the necrophages, which Merlin intended to get more information on as soon as possible.

Armed with this information, Merlin made to sneak out to see Gaius.

Unfortunately for Merlin, Arthur caught him by the back of the neck before he could go. “Merlin! You weren’t about to sneak off, were you?”

Merlin, having been about to do just that, huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’ve nothing left for me to do, _sire_ , I was about to help Gaius with some things he needs done today.” But he couldn’t help a hint of a grin.

Arthur ruffled his hair and hugged an arm around his shoulders. “I rather think master Geralt could use some assistance, don’t you?”

Geralt shifted from one foot to the other, looking as uncomfortable as Merlin felt. “Don’t think—”

Arthur ran right over him. “Merlin is perfectly capable of helping, trust me. He can draw bath water and clean armor and swords.” He leaned in a little closer to Merlin with a faint smirk and murmured just loud enough for only Merlin to hear. “And I’m sure you’ll have some time before dinner to attend to mine as well?”

“Fine, you—” Merlin rolled his eyes and shoved Arthur off him, then turned to Geralt with a sigh, attempting to look contrite and not quite succeeding. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Geralt eyed him for a moment, and Merlin felt his skin prickle under Geralt’s gaze. “A bath would be nice,” he admitted. “Just gonna run down to the stables to get everything from Roach.”

“Merlin can take care of that too,” Arthur said promptly; Merlin wanted to hit him.

“No,” Geralt said quite firmly. “Need to do that myself.” And with that, he swept away down the hall.

#

Merlin, of course, found himself busy all the way up to dinner, ferrying water and coordinating towels and soap. Geralt came in at some point carrying a plethora of saddlebags, which he carefully dumped on the floor beside the bed before settling cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed.

“Geralt,” he said tentatively, when he finished with the bath, “your water’s ready.”

“Hmm.” Geralt shifted to stand, slow. “Thank you,” he said, quirking his lips a little.

Merlin gestured to the bath, then scuttled behind the screen to fiddle with the drapes on the other side of the room while Geralt got settled. While he waited, he peered at Geralt’s swords where they were propped up against the wall. They were of similar length and width, looking to be the sort of one-handed swords Arthur used with a shield. Why someone would need two near-identical swords, Merlin couldn’t guess.

Once the water splashed a little, Merlin sidled out and opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. Geralt was stretched out long in the tub, eyes closed and breathing softly. His entire chest was criss-crossed with scars, some deep and long, some old and not going anywhere, and some newer, pinker scars that flushed in the heat of the water.

“I can clean your armor? Or your swords?” Merlin tentatively offered.

Geralt leveled a flat gaze in Merlin’s direction. “I require nothing.” He scowled, then held a hand over the bathwater and flicked his wrist. The water steamed up.

How a man could look so intimidating while naked in a bathtub, Merlin didn’t know. He managed a dignified squeak and fled.

He ran into Gwen in the corridor as she was headed towards the kitchens. “Merlin!” she said, smiling, and she stepped aside for him. “You look a little…” She looked him over. “…peaky.”

“You don’t say,” Merlin muttered. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Arthur set me to take care of our guest, and he’s incredibly grumpy.”

Gwen smirked at him. “And that’s different how?”

Merlin grumbled a little. “It’s different with Arthur, and you know it.”

“Only because you two _like_ going for each others’ throats in the best kind of way,” Gwen said.

Then, finally, he was allowed ten minutes of peace and quiet to get back to his room before the feast, though he probably should’ve been serving Arthur. This was just enough time to change out of his dusty, soapy travel clothes and into something suitable for serving at dinner.

Arthur gave him a dirty look when Merlin arrived, breathless and just in time, but he couldn’t say anything as everyone was just sitting down. Uther and Arthur were in their usual spots, and Geralt had been seated beside Uther.

Though he’d shown up in less-than-ideal clothing—not unexpected for a traveler, but clearly not up to Uther’s standards if his expression was any indication—Geralt seemed to know how to behave in the company of royalty. Merlin was relieved to see no great social gaffes. He also kept his mouth shut all throughout the first course while Uther and Arthur discussed important affairs of state and Merlin kept their drinks full, as usual.

Then the _fun stuff_ came up.

“I don’t know if you’ve yet heard, Arthur,” said Uther as he lifted his cup, “but there have been a number of deaths in the city in the past week, too unusual to be blamed on more… natural causes, according to Gaius.”

At this, Geralt sat up straighter, tilting his head.

Arthur frowned. “You suspect sorcery?”

“This sorcery. How do you know?” Geralt set down his fork and put his full attention to Uther.

Uther glanced over, surprised, but grudgingly allowed, “There is no other explanation. There is no illness sweeping the city, and they were all well-off enough to not be wanting for food. They had no public enemies of any sort; indeed, they are all upstanding citizens of Camelot. Arthur—” he turned to his son—“I would like you to investigate this to the full extent of your abilities, if you will.”

“Of course, Father,” Arthur said loyally. He puffed up a bit at the prospect of responsibility, and Merlin rolled his eyes.

Geralt, however, was leaning forward towards Uther. “And you know nothing else of these killings?”

Uther said, slowly, “No, that is why I have asked Arthur—"

“I kill monsters for _pay_ , your majesty,” Geralt said pointedly. “If there is a monster which needs killing.”

No one else would have dared to say something so forward to the king, and in fact Merlin held his breath to listen, but Uther merely snorted. “Is that so? Well, so be it. I’m sure we can come to an agreement for your services this time.”

#

Back in Arthur’s rooms after dinner, Merlin did not have high hopes for… any part of his evening or next day.

“Arthur, I don’t know why you just _volunteered_ me,” Merlin started, fully prepared to complain about the afternoon with Geralt and evening at dinner, but Arthur smoothly interrupted.

“Think, Merlin! This is our chance to learn more about him. Where he comes from, who he is—” Arthur gestured wildly, and Merlin hoped he hadn’t seen Geralt’s magic after all.

This, Merlin could accept, as he had been wondering the same thing himself. But it was will ill grace that he sighed deeply and groused, in the most insolent tone he could muster, “Well, if you _insist_ , I suppose I will alter my _very important plans_ for the next several days. Sire.” 

Arthur deliberately ignored this blatant lack of respect and flopped back onto his bed with a dramatic . “So, Merlin, did you actually find out anything useful about our guest?”

Merlin dropped into the chair across the room and shrugged. “Nothing except that he likes baths, has an unbelievable number of scars, and doesn’t want anyone touching his armor or swords.”

Arthur sat up slowly. “Scars?”

“All over,” Merlin confirmed. “I guess he must hunt monsters a lot.”

Arthur chucked a pillow at his head, which Merlin caught with ease. “I suppose you’re right,” Arthur allowed.

“Of _course_ I’m right, I’m _always_ right,” Merlin said imperiously, with all the air of someone who knows he’s right more often than not.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. As your prince, I am always in the right,” Arthur said with a huff. Then he got a little gleam in his eyes, and he sat up slowly. “You know, since you didn’t get to polish any armor this evening, I’m sure you can find the time to finish mine tomorrow.”

Merlin flung the pillow back and hit Arthur square in the face. “Prat,” he shot back, and he managed to duck out before Arthur could say anything else.

“Gaius,” he said some time later from the comfort of their shared rooms, “something about Geralt isn’t quite right.”

The Eyebrow came up slowly over Gaius’ latest brewing herbal concoction. “Is that so?”

“Well first of all, he’s got magic.” Merlin threw himself into the closest chair. “He made a shield when we—when he was fighting the basilisk, and then he started the fire with magic afterwards, too. And he heated up the bath water earlier.”

The other eyebrow joined its mate. “Oh, really.” Gaius rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers together. “No one else caught him doing it?”

“I _did_ warn him,” Merlin said with a sigh. “I dunno if he listened, though.”

“Evidently not,” Gaius said dryly. He studied Merlin for a moment. “I suppose it’s something that he didn’t do any in front of anyone important.”

“He knew I saw, though,” Merlin pointed out. “Anyway, I doubt you noticed at dinner, but his eyes are yellow—like how my eyes get when I’m doing magic, only not glowing,” Merlin said, reminiscing of the time he’d seen his own eyes in the mirror. “They look like cat’s eyes up close, actually. And his medallion is—weird.” He abruptly remembered the hand gestures Geralt had made to light the fire and warm up the bath water and briefly described it to Gaius.

Gaius hummed. “Perhaps his subset of magic is different than what you’re used to, Merlin. That doesn’t make him strange or unusual.”

Speaking of unusual… Merlin shot up and snapped his fingers. “Oh! I meant to ask you. Do you know what a necrophage is? Or a ghoul?”

Gaius made a thoughtful sound and got up, bones creaking, to pull a dusty book of one of his shelves. “I would need to do a little research, but that does sound familiar. I shall have to pay a visit to the library in the morning.”

“Well, can you let me know what you find? Maybe I can figure out what’s up with him,” Merlin said, finally hopeful.

Gaius jabbed a bony finger in his direction. “Merlin, don’t you dare out yourself to him. You don’t know him, you don’t know if he’s safe, and it’s not your responsibility to play nursemaid against the law in the face of those who openly flaunt it.”

Merlin crossed over his chest and said, in the best, most truthful of tones, “I would never, Gaius. I swear.”

#

Merlin woke himself at the crack of dawn to deliver Arthur’s breakfast. His royal highness was still sleeping, predictably, so he took his time and made as much noise as possible in a pre-emptive revenge for the armor cleaning he was prescribed today. He’d nearly finished setting out Arthur’s clothes and armor for the day when the pratly prince himself deigned to awake.

“Huzzat—Merlin?” Arthur sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting your highness up for the day,” Merlin said brightly. He’d made sure to position the curtains just right so the morning sunlight hit Arthur’s face directly. He held up two tunics for inspection. “Red, or blue?”

“Red,” Arthur grunted on reflex. He flailed about as he tried to sit up, and eventually managed to snatch a roll off his loaded breakfast tray. Merlin, of course, had already picked off enough for his own breakfast but refrained from saying so. 

“Don’t forget,” Merlin said, as he was dressing Arthur twenty minutes later, “we’re to go into the town today to investigate those deaths with Geralt.”

Arthur made a face. “I had forgotten, thank you, Merlin.” He snatched another roll off the breakfast tray, and they made their way down to the stables.

Geralt was already there waiting for them, and he stopped them just as they went to enter. “Don’t need horses,” he said, rolling his shoulders back. He was back in his armor, which still showed a few stains but was still significantly cleaner than the day before, and still carried two swords on his back. “Can’t track on horseback.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Merlin jabbed him in the arms and hissed, “He’s here to help us, don’t be an idiot, Arthur.”

Instead of arguing, Arthur conceded with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right. Here, let’s go to the first…”

Geralt disagreed, and they ended up going to the latest death scene first because “the traces will be more obvious.” Seeing as the noblewoman had been killed two days ago, Merlin didn’t see how Geralt could possibly pick up any physical traces.

Both Arthur and Geralt took their sweet time to investigate the dead woman’s house. Everything had been left untouched except for her body, which had been taken away to be prepared for burial. Arthur began poking around the woman’s belongings, looking to see if anything important had been looked over, while Merlin subtly reached out to feel for anything magical. He _thought_ he felt a tingle when he stood close to the bloody outline of the woman’s body—which deeply unsettled him—and there was a bit of a cold spot, too.

Geralt knelt in several places throughout the room, staring at the walls and the floor and once _actually sniffing_ like a bloodhound. Merlin had no idea what he hoped to accomplish with this. He extensively studied the blood patterns on the floor, and the chests scattered throughout the home, and read every piece of writing he could get his hands on.

They repeated this at the homes of the three previous victims. Merlin, once again, felt a hint of something… _other_ that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Arthur wandered aimlessly about doing nothing of use, and Geralt continued his strange sniffing song and dance. At one point, he demanded, “Why does Uther suspect the hand of magic in this?”

Arthur shrugged. “My father thinks every unexplained thing is sorcery.”

“Hmm.” Geralt subsided with a grumble. Finally, he turned to Arthur in the bedroom of the very first victim, a diary in hand, and asked, “Have any of her friends or acquaintances died recently? Anyone she knows?”

Arthur squinted. “I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I suppose it’s possible. I can inquire into the matter.”

Geralt hummed and shut the diary. “Be pretty hard to figure out who’s haunting her and the others without knowing that.”

“Haunting?” 

“Hmm.”

“So it’s a ghost?”

That explained the cold spots and weird feelings, Merlin thought.

Geralt grunted. “Or something like that. Can’t be sure yet.”

And that was all they got out of Geralt for the rest of the morning.

#

They all reconvened after lunch in the courtyard where Arthur gathered his knights to train. There was quite a crowd today, some older and younger, and all looked eager to pass the time with Arthur.

“Surely you’d like to join us?” Arthur said to Geralt; Merlin alone heard the wheedling tone in his voice that meant he desperately wanted to give an order but knew it was impolite. Merlin and Geralt both were seated together on a low stone wall with weapons and armor piled beside them.

Geralt grunted and ran a grindstone over his blade. “No.”

Merlin hid a laugh behind his hand at Arthur’s face, which Arthur fortunately didn’t see as he turned back to his knights. “Good call,” he said to Geralt. “He’s an insufferable git when he doesn’t get his way.”

“Not surprised,” Geralt muttered. He watched Arthur command the knights into some semblance of a training formation and give out orders. Merlin recognized the partnering off as Arthur wanting everyone to get some sparring practice in. Sure enough, after a few minutes he brought out blunt practice blades for everyone to use. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at them until he felt an elbow lightly jab his ribs.

He startled and twisted. Geralt was smirking at him. “Alright there?”

Merlin pulled the metal polish and Arthur’s greaves closer. “You just surprised me, that’s all.” 

Geralt hummed and held up his sword for inspection. “You always clean his armor?”

Merlin sighed a little too dramatically. “And his swords, and his knives, and polish everything almost every day, even if it doesn’t need it.”

“A bit spoiled of him,” Geralt said mildly. “A warrior should know how to take care of his—or her—own equipment.”

Merlin perked up a bit. “You’ve seen women warriors?”

“Many, and all of them would be appalled that he doesn’t know how to sharpen a fucking sword.” Geralt glanced over at the pile of Arthur’s weapons that needed work.

“I’m sure Arthur knows how,” Merlin said hastily, “but he just likes making me do it because he can.”

“Like I said, spoiled. Let him have it beaten into him by a decent teacher and see how he likes _that_.”

Merlin snorted. “I take it you’re talking from personal experience?”

“Very personal.” Geralt sheathed his sword and set it aside, replacing it with his armor; it still had bits of black blood worked into the leather and some of the chain mail. “Still kicks our asses if we miss a day.” He gave the leather a few passes with a rag and some oil. Blood came off with each pass, though not enough given the state of thing, and after a few minutes he tossed it aside in disgust and moved on to his second sword.

Merlin paused in his own work to examine the sword. It gleamed differently from the other one—it was purer, more reflective, like the good silver he polished on occasion. Along the flat of the blade, strange runes were carved into the metal. Several runes looked familiar, like he’d seen them in his book somewhere, and he ventured, “Is that what you use to fight monsters? Or ghosts?”

“Yes.” Geralt held the sword up and looked it over.

“It’s not—” Merlin lowered his voice. “It’s not magic, is it?”

Geralt scoffed. “’Course not. Mages don’t use blades.” He paused, then— “Even _mages_ have problems with ghosts. Fuck knows how many times they’ve paid me to get rid of specters rather than deal with it themselves.” Geralt glowered at his sword and fiercely swiped the grindstone down the edge of the blade.

Even mages? Merlin felt the rise of righteous indignation in his chest. He could take care of a ghost no problem if he only had the chance to prove it. It was too bad he couldn’t argue back. “I bet a _good_ mage could,” he said, just barely stopping his fist from clenching.

Arthur, with his impeccable timing, chose that exact moment to glide over, sword in hand. “Master Geralt! I see you’ve been busy.” Geralt stared blandly at him, and Arthur continued, “Perhaps now you’d care to join us? We could use your expertise in preparing to deal with this ghost.”

“ _I_ will be dealing with the ghost,” Geralt said sharply. “Alone.”

Merlin glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. Tell Arthur what to do? Good luck with that.

Arthur scowled at him. “We’ll do a bit more research, know exactly what we need, and—"

“The _fuck_ you are not. You haven’t got the right kind of weapon.” Geralt stood and hefted his sword in one hand. “You need silver, oil, moon dust, yrd—” He cut himself off, clearly furious. “You aren’t fast enough or strong enough. You have no idea what you’re up against, and that won’t change with one afternoon of exercise. You’re all going to fucking die.”

Arthur’s face grew dark and he gripped his sword tighter. “If you’re so sure, why don’t you show us what you think we’ll be up against?”

Geralt slammed his sword into its sheath and strode to the weapons rack. He picked a blunt blade at random, swinging it once, and then turned to Arthur with a look of unexpected fury in his yellow eyes. “Fine. Let’s see what you have to offer, _your highness_.” He twisted his lips into an unpleasant smile.

The knights all stepped away to form a semicircle behind Arthur, a low buzz building amongst themselves. Arthur, even, took a step back as if he regretted his words, but then he gripped his sword and set his face to stone. Geralt approached, looming and dangerous, with all the vigor of someone comfortable with their weapons and skills after decades of experience.

Merlin felt something cold curl in the pit of his stomach and as Arthur and Geralt circled each other. Geralt’s footsteps perfectly mirrored Arthur’s, and despite his obvious anger, his body was loose and relaxed. Arthur, though—he burned with fervor and thrummed with pent-up energy and the thrill of a fight, to prove himself against a stranger.

Then Arthur was moving, going for a straight attack. Geralt parried it easily and twisted to the side. Arthur snapped to block him just a hair in time, but Geralt simply rolled forward and came up to his feet behind Arthur to slash at him. The blow would surely have landed if Arthur hadn’t had instincts honed by years of training.

They parried back and forth, first Arthur getting ahead and then Geralt. It seemed like no matter where Arthur shifted, or what move he made, Geralt was always two steps ahead. Arthur’s two-handed blows against Geralt’s one-handed strikes were near-equal—until Geralt swept to the side and dealt a glancing attack.

It was entirely unfair. Arthur was strong, held himself together, could do _anything_ and trained and trained until he was able to. And here came a stranger with magic that wasn’t Merlin’s, beating back Arthur with not even a hard breath.

Merlin desperately wanted to believe in Arthur—together, he and Arthur could _definitely_ take on any ghost, any supernatural creature, like they always had—and they didn’t need to prove it to anyone, least of all someone who mocked mages.

He never should’ve done it, but… Merlin flexed a hand and breathed out a spell. It was a small thing, a block of air where there should have been nothing, and Geralt stumbled. He took a full strike to the arm that staggered him backwards, that shouldn’t have done a thing if he’d been wearing armor. Only he _wasn’t_ , because his armor was lying next to Merlin, oily and bloody.

Arthur struck again, and this time Geralt went down, his sword clattering to the side, and Arthur immediately thumped a boot to his chest and thrust the tip of his blade to Geralt’s throat. They stared at each other in silence, Arthur’s eyes glittering with pride and triumph.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Arthur said coldly. He removed his sword from Geralt’s throat and stalked to the opposite side of the courtyard; the knights dispersed with hushed whispers.

Merlin watched, dry-mouthed, as Geralt lay on the ground for a full minute. He wasn’t even sweating, but his white hair was dusty and streaked with dirt, and his shirt looked to be in the same condition. His sleeve was torn slightly; Merlin could see a shallow wound bleeding sluggishly from where Arthur had hit him.

His gaze drifted to the blunt blade lying in the dirt. It was a two-handed sword, and Geralt had used it with one hand like it was nothing.

Before he could do anything with this information, Geralt pushed himself to his feet. He staggered ever so slightly and slapped a hand to the wound. When it came away bloody, he made a face but didn’t otherwise react. Then he straightened and rolled his shoulders back.

He touched the bloody hand to his medallion, eyes searching, until they settled firmly on Merlin.

A chill shuddered through Merlin. Suddenly he knew without a doubt that Geralt knew, somehow, that Merlin had sabotaged him. Merlin had done the exact thing Gaius told him not to do and revealed his powers to someone he didn’t trust.

And the worst part was, he had no one to blame but himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to post this! I had it all written but totally forgot to post it. Enjoy!

Most people might have confessed and admitted they were in the wrong, and could they be forgiven, it wouldn’t happen again. Merlin, not being most people, fled instead. How could he have been so stupid? All it had taken was one dig at sorcerers and a little yelling at Arthur and Merlin fell head-over-heels into finishing a fight he didn’t start.

He didn’t particularly want to face Arthur, either, since Arthur was sure to be in a foul mood. And he couldn’t beg Gaius to get him out of serving at dinner, because then Gaius would ask _why_ and Merlin would be right back where he started, having done something he shouldn’t have.

He ended up hiding in an alcove above the courtyard where he could safely see everything below without a chance of being caught. Arthur was on one side, curtly calling out orders and assisting some of the younger knights. Geralt was on the other side, scrubbing furiously at his armor. Sometime in the past few minutes he had also scrounged up a makeshift bandage for the arm wound.

After a little while, Merlin managed to relax somewhat; Arthur hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t down there anymore, so technically he had nothing to do—a feeling he relished. He settled for watching Arthur practice—and then Geralt, when he appeared to have finished with his armor.

Geralt moved fluidly through several sword forms, every movement precise. Looking at him now, Merlin found it hard to believe that Arthur could best him. He’d never seen Arthur look so at ease with a weapon… nor so powerful with one. Each stroke of his blade looked like it would sever a man’s head with as little effort as a knife through butter.

Strangely enough, at times he would pause—in a hesitation that would kill any other soldier in battle, according to Arthur—and thrust a hand out in front of him. After watching for awhile, Merlin got the hang of it. He made a handful of small, deliberate wrist movements where nothing happened afterwards. Magic, Merlin realized. He used magic while fighting and didn’t care who saw him practicing with it. At least he wasn’t doing something stupid like casting anything _right in front of Arthur_. 

Merlin grew bored just watching after awhile, so he went back downstairs to mope in his bedroom and browse through his magic book for awhile. Nothing took his fancy; every new spell he came across made him think of the one he’d just muddled up. Going out into the main room to help Gaius made him feel even guiltier. Eventually he gave up and took a nap.

#

By nightfall, the entire castle knew that Arthur had bested Geralt, the supposed monster hunter, in a fight over whether Arthur could fight monsters. Reports of the fight were admittedly exaggerated: Arthur had not sent Geralt flying head over heels, and the fight had not been over in less than thirty seconds. But though everyone claimed to know exactly what happened, it was only Merlin who knew the miserable truth.

And it was a miserable Merlin who scraped up the courage to serve Arthur at dinner. Geralt was once again seated beside Uther, with Arthur on the other side, and Merlin kept as far away as feasibly possible without actually leaving the room.

The table conversation was… enlightening, and it all made Merlin feel rather small.

“I hear there was a disagreement this afternoon,” Uther said mildly between the first course and the second.

“Hmm.” Geralt swallowed down a swig of ale while Arthur glowered at his plate.

“You understand, of course,” Uther continued on, “that the crown prince has in the past been first and foremost in his skill in combat against creatures of darkness.”

  
Geralt hummed again, noncommittal.

Uther narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you—“

Arthur flushed, whether from indignation or pride Merlin couldn’t say. “Father, really—“

Sensing that no one present was comfortable with the line of conversation, including Arthur, Uther for once dropped it and returned to a more acceptable train of thought: the killer currently afflicting the streets of Camelot.

This, Geralt seemed perfectly willing to talk about. “A ghost, your majesty,” he said blandly between bites of venison. “A vengeful spirit haunting a number of individuals who did her great wrong in life. Need to do more investigating to find out exactly what.”

“A ghost.” Uther drummed his fingers on the table as Merlin surreptitiously refilled his cup.

“Not sure what kind yet,” Geralt said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. 

“There are… different kinds of ghosts?”

“Banshees, wraiths, penitents… Pretty sure it’s not a penitent, though.” Geralt smiled wanly. “You would know if it was. Would wreak a lot more havoc, kill a lot more people.”

Neither Uther nor Arthur seemed to know what to do with this information. Uther had no further questions, Arthur resumed eating without looking at Geralt once, and Merlin shrank into the background as much as possible. Dinner resumed and concluded with no fanfare whatsoever. Merlin even began to think he could avoid speaking to Geralt at all.

Unfortunately, if Merlin thought he would emerge unscathed, he was sorely mistaken.

He purposefully took the longest possible way back to Gaius’ rooms in what turned out to be a fruitless effort to avoid Geralt, because Geralt was waiting at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest.

Merlin froze, then swallowed and said, “Master Geralt, good to see you.”

Geralt eyed Merlin for a moment, then jerked his head. “Need to talk to you.”

“Er—I have things—“

“ _Now_ ,” Geralt growled. He grabbed Merlin by the arm and began dragging him down the hall.

Merlin found himself unable to do anything besides stumble after him—he couldn’t even protest, because that would draw _attention_ , and then everyone would ask, and he’d have to _admit_ to things, like magic. Only one guard even tried to stop them with an outstretched hand and a “now wait a moment—“

“This is fine, and nothing is amiss,” Geralt said, swiping a hand in front of the guard’s face. The guard relaxed immediately and mumbled an apology.

“What the hell!” Merlin hissed as Geralt shoved him into his private guest room.

Geralt finally, _finally_ released Merlin and leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “You mind explaining this afternoon?”

Merlin’s heart beat what felt like a million times a minute. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said plaintively with a swallow.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, I can smell your fear and hear your heart.” Geralt stalked forward, advancing on Merlin until he had to back away and press against the wall. Geralt leaned in and prodded a finger to Merlin’s chest. “You did something when I was fighting the prince. What was it?”

Merlin was stuck on _smell your fear_. “What?” he squeaked. “I don’t— _smell?_ Hear my _heart?_ ”

Geralt stopped at that, tilting his head to the side and gazing intently at Merlin. “You don’t know. Hmm.”

There was a lot more going on here than Merlin could process at once. _Smelling fear_ , hearing a heartbeat, using some kind of magic to fool a guard, sensing somehow that Merlin was the one who tripped him. “I swear, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And tentatively, he reached out for his magic—if Geralt tried to hurt him, he knew he could get away—

“ _That_. Right there.” Geralt closed a hand around his medallion and narrowed his eyes. “You’re a mage. Isn’t magic illegal here?”

Merlin stared at him, open-mouthed.

“A mage,” Geralt decided. He stepped back and gestured at Merlin. “And you tripped me… why?”

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Merlin blurted. “I forgot you didn’t have your armor on, that’s my fault. I didn’t think Arthur would actually hit you.”

“Already healed,” Geralt said. He shrugged his shoulder back, circling his arm a little as if to test it. “Nothing I haven’t had worse before. You didn’t answer my question.”

Merlin hesitated; Gaius had warned him against doing this _exact thing_ , but given Geralt had already guessed he had magic… there couldn’t really be any harm in telling him, could there? “Yeah,” Merlin admitted, “I have magic.”

Geralt tapped his foot expectantly. “Tripping?”

“Look, you were being—I don’t know—Arthur didn’t deserve—“ Merlin clenched his fists and tried very hard to come up with an excuse that didn’t sound completely ridiculous.

“Arthur did deserve,” said Geralt flatly. “He’s going to get himself killed.” He leveled a glare at Merlin. “And you’ve given him a bigger head than he had before. He thinks he’s invincible.”

There was nothing Merlin could say to that, really, except, “He always thinks he’s invincible. And I’m the one who has to save him.” And then, because Geralt didn’t say anything, Merlin carried on, “It’s stupid _destiny_ , I have to help him become the king of Albion because a _dragon said so_ —”

Geralt was staring at him helplessly. “Destiny?”

“It’s so _stupid_!” Merlin threw up his hands. “Not that I _mind_ doing it now, but I hate that I _have_ to do it because of destiny and not just because I want to!” And because he felt like it, and Geralt didn’t seem to have anything further to say, he ranted for a few more minutes about that dumb dragon and all the times he saved Arthur with no thanks or recognition whatsoever.

“You finished?” said Geralt, his face blank, when Merlin ran out of words. 

“Yeah,” Merlin mumbled. He flopped into a chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Sorry for—you know. I wasn’t thinking and I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“Hm.” Geralt shoved up his sleeve and revealed the injured skin. Merlin squinted. There was nothing there; maybe he’d imagined it? “It happened,” Geralt said, eyeing his arm. If Merlin looked closely there might have been a fading scar that looked several days old. “I just heal quickly.”

Merlin said dubiously, “It looks like you didn’t get cut at all.”

“Like I said, fast healer.” Geralt pulled his shirt back down and sat on the heavy trunk at the end of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and peered at Merlin. “Gonna assume you don’t know anything about witchers.”

“Er—”

“Thought so.” Geralt waved a hand in front of his face. “Eyes, hair, monster hunting, two swords, fast healing. All part of the package.”

Merlin chewed on his lip. “And the uh—magic?”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing like yours, from what I can tell. Just a few signs for fighting.” He raised a hand and gestured. This time, Merlin felt a shudder of magic in the air as a a circle of runes appeared on the floor around Geralt. “This,” he said after a moment, “is what I would use to fight wraiths. Ghosts,” he clarified when Merlin scrunched up his face. He waved again and the runes disappeared.

“Huh.” Merlin considered. “So you only know a few spells. Fire, and a shield?” he guessed, remembering how the basilisk’s attack had bounced off Geralt—and then he recalled the guard. “And some kind of… mind control?”

“If you wanna call it that. There’s one more, but I can’t show you here. Too obvious.” He quirked the corner of his mouth. “Arthur wouldn’t have stood a chance if I used it. Figured I’d be arrested, too. Like Radovid, the bastard,” he muttered, a sour look on his face.

Merlin thought there was a story behind that, but he opted to keep his mouth shut this time.

Then, quite suddenly, Geralt froze, his eyes widening, and then he dove for his saddlebags and jerked out a journal Merlin recognized from their ghost hunt that afternoon. “Shit,” he muttered, flipping through it. “Has anyone been arrested and executed for sorcery lately?”

“Uh…” Merlin had to think back; it had been several weeks. “Yeah, a couple weeks ago. A noblewoman who was turned in by her friends. Kinda sad, actually.”

“All of the victims. They knew her, they were the ones who turned her in.” He turned and flicked his finger on a page. “She’s going through those who harmed her in life. The friends who betrayed her.”

#

There was nothing else to be done—it was late, and they both had to sleep. Merlin left Geralt to what looked like potion brewing and headed down to get some sleep. He still didn’t mention anything to Gaius because he didn’t want the eyebrow of shame, though he felt guilty about it.

The morning initially went splendidly. Arthur was in a decent mood, Merlin felt cheerful enough to banter as usual, and they both had a decent breakfast from the tray Merlin had brought up from the kitchens.

“You’re in a good mood,” Arthur observed as Merlin was fitting him with a tunic and chain mail.

Merlin couldn’t help a grin. “I think today will be a good day, sire,” he said, hoping it would be so. Geralt had a new break, Merlin wasn’t in danger of being outted as a sorcerer, and Arthur was still on a high from yesterday’s fight.

Arthur snorted and ruffled his hair. “You always think today will be a good day.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, this morning will be spent with my father, going over numbers and preparing rosters for the next several weeks."

Well, perhaps not a good day for Arthur, but Merlin had high hopes for possible investigations with Geralt.

True enough, almost right after leaving Arthur’s room, they were ambushed down the hall by Geralt; Merlin had no idea how he could possibly know exactly where they were at any given moment. “Your highness,” said Geralt with the most sincere face Merlin had ever seen, “if I may, I require Merlin’s assistance.”  


Arthur hesitated, wavering; he was clearly still mad at Geralt but didn’t want to deny him the thing he’d already offered. “Fine,” he said with gritted teeth. “I have matters of state to attend to this morning anyway. Merlin, make sure you’re back this afternoon.” _To allow me to inflict all the terrible chores I can’t foist off on you now_ was the unspoken implication.

Cowed, Merlin nodded once and let out a deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Geralt’s nostrils flare, an odd look in his eyes, and Merlin knew he was judging Arthur for making Merlin do all the armor and weapons maintenance he should’ve done himself.

“Great,” said Geralt, and he practically dragged Merlin down the hall and out into the streets before Arthur could get another word out.

The next several hours were spent traipsing across the entire city. Merlin, who thought he knew the city pretty well, was lost immediately even though he tried to pay attention. Geralt, however, seemed to be on a mission. He stopped at the house of the last victim, spent ten minutes sniffing around the house, and then headed back out. From there, they wandered in what felt to Merlin like meaningless directions. They ended up in the market, back near the palace, to several houses Merlin didn’t recognize, and finally back at the houses of the other victims.

“Hmm,” Geralt said as they stood outside the first victim’s home.

Merlin, slightly out of breath from trying to keep up with Geralt, bent over with his hands on his knees. “What now?” he panted.

“She’s already taken care of everyone who betrayed her,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “There must be someone else.”

“Maybe oh, I dunno, Uther?” Merlin glared at the dirt. “He’s the one who had her executed, you know.” 

Geralt hummed, and then they headed back to the castle.

Arthur met them before Merlin could get any lunch. “Ah, Merlin!” Arthur draped an arm around his shoulders with the sort of manic grin that in the past had had Merlin scrubbing chestplates for hours. “Perfect timing. My swords from yesterday could use a good clean, don’t you think?”

Geralt ground his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest. “Have a minute for the ghost problem?” he bit out.

“Ah, master Geralt.” Arthur turned a bright and insincere smile on him. “What did your search this morning yield?”

“Vengeful spirit, probably a wraith. Know who it is even, just need a name.” Geralt stepped forward into Arthur’s personal space and curled his lips. “Who was the latest mage executed for the _crime_ of _sorcery_?”

Maybe Arthur didn’t recognize the sound of someone who wanted to start a fight, but Merlin did. Something about execution for magic had clearly struck a nerve with Geralt.

“Excellent. I will look into it,” Arthur said, eyes gleaming. “When do you expect we will be able to fight it?”

Geralt’s expression soured, but he inclined his head. “As soon as I have everything I need.” And with that cryptic intonation, he gave Merlin a significant look before stalking down the hall.

#

The afternoon was in fact spent sharpening Arthur’s weapons. Merlin couldn’t help feeling a little resentful that he, the one with no skill whatsoever with the sword, had to be the one to clean Arthur’s weapons. Arthur was spoiled, he realized, and tended to take things out on Merlin. He supposed that was what came with being a prince.

By the time he finally finished, it was nearly dinner.

But to his surprise, he found Arthur partaking in his rooms. “Ahh, Merlin, there you are,” he said over a mouthful of venison, “time for you to tell me what actually happened today.”

“Er—” Merlin hefted an armful of the armor Arthur would wear tomorrow. “This?”

“No, I meant this morning, with Geralt.” Arthur made a face. “The woman who was executed a few weeks ago, her name is Marguerite. I meant to tell him earlier but couldn’t find him. And it’s like he said, a group of her friends turned her in.” Arthur sounded disappointed to have to admit that Geralt was right about something.

Merlin hesitated. He’d had a thought—Geralt had seemed so disgusted by the idea of a mage’s friends betraying her, like he’d seen it before. “Arthur,” he said slowly, “do you think they got what they deserved? Her friends, I mean. For getting her killed.”

Arthur stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. He gazed at Merlin for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “I don’t know that anyone gets what they deserve, half the time.”

“But they betrayed her,” he insisted; he suddenly needed to know what Arthur’s answer would be. “They could’ve kept her secret. Then no one would have died.”

“Which is against my father’s law,” Arthur said, gritting his teeth. “Merlin—just—leave it be, alright? There can’t be exceptions just because, or _everyone_ would want an exception. The law has to apply to everyone equally.” He sounded very tired.

Merlin subsided. He suspected Arthur didn’t want to answer because he didn’t want to say something Merlin wouldn’t like—and Merlin found himself not quite satisfied, but also less greedy to know the answer.

After Arthur had been well and truly put to bed, Merlin wandered back down to his room.

“Gaius,” he said, perching on the clearest table, “do you really think Arthur’s going to repeal the ban on magic someday?”

Gaius paused in the act of grinding some herbs and stared at Merlin. “Why on earth are you asking about this now?”

“Dunno. We talked about it earlier.” Merlin hunched over a little. “With what Geralt found today—"

What he might have said about the day’s expedition might never have been known, as the door banged open to reveal Geralt himself, in full armor, armed with his two swords. Ignoring Merlin entirely, he strode over to Gaius and barked, “Need your help with the ghost.”

Merlin gaped. “How’d you get down here?”

“Tracked you,” Geralt said shortly. He rested his palms on the table and stared at Gaius. “The wraith is going to attack the king. Yes, I know this for sure,” he said, to Gaius’ skeptical look, “because she is killing those who wronged her in life. She killed the friends who betrayed her, and now she wants to kill Uther. I felt her in the halls.”

Gaius jerked a little. “Felt her? You mean—”

“There’s a wraith here as we speak. There’s no time, it’s going to kill the king if we don’t do something.” Geralt made a sound low in his throat and clasped his hand over the medallion around his neck. “Don’t want to partake in regicide any more than either of you do.” The _even if I actually want to_ was implied, and even worse, an _again_.

Merlin plopped onto the nearest bench as Gaius focused his full attention on Geralt. “Why have you come to me?”

Geralt swept his hand wide over the whole room. “This place reeks of… arcane knowledge, or whatever. Gotta know something.” He sniffed the air surreptitiously.

Merlin hid his face in his hands. Arcane knowledge? He might as well have just said magic.

Gaius hummed and puttered over to his bookshelf. “I’m afraid you might know more than I do about the vanquishing of specters. What is it you need?”

Geralt began pacing from one side of the room to the other, taut with suppressed energy. “Gonna need her body, maybe something that belonged to her to summon her and burn with it.”

Gaius pursed his lips. “She was burned at the stake.”

“Of course she was.” Geralt dragged a hand over his face. “Anything that might’ve been taken from her in custody?”

“Hmm, let me see…” Gaius moved to the other shelf and hovered over several books before plucking one out. “This was found in her home. I was able to get it from Geoffrey to take a look at it, see if anything might be of use in case of future plots against the king.”

Geralt took the book and sniffed it, then—“Guess this’ll do,” he said gruffly. And then, “One more thing.” Geralt whirled on Gaius, his face stony. “Arthur must not follow us. He _will_ die. He can’t ward, and the wraith can turn invisible and is immune to steel weapons.”

“Good luck with that,” Gaius said dryly, turning away to fiddle with one of his potions paraphernalia and tactfully not mentioning their fight. Then he stiffened, straightened, and turned back. “Did you say ward?”

“That’s the other thing.” Geralt shifted into a defensive stance and thrust a hand downward. The sigil circle appeared in purple light around him. “Pretty sure I’d get arrested, and I’d much rather get paid than have to cut through a garrison of guards just trying to do their jobs.” He relaxed, and the sigil disappeared.

Gaius stared at Geralt, and then at Merlin; Merlin ducked his head, but he could still feel the eyebrow of disapproval. “Is that so.”

“Merlin might as well come,” Geralt continued blithely, “since he can take care of himself.”

“ _Can_ he.” Merlin couldn’t see Gaius, but he could _hear_ the heavily implied ‘we will be talking about this later, _Merlin_.’

Geralt hummed and returned to pacing. “Been attacking at night, so nightwraith. Need to corner it somewhere no one else will get hurt.” He glanced at Merlin and raised an eyebrow. “Know of anywhere nearby?”

Merlin sighed and stood. “I know somewhere we can go.”

#

Merlin took them to a mostly-empty circular room far from the oft-used areas of the castle. It had once been a large war-room chamber, but it had long been put into disuse. The table and chairs were shoved to the side, draped in white sheets, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. Merlin sneezed immediately.

“Stay out of the way and protect yourself,” Geralt told him, flicking his fingers at the far side of the room. “Whatever simple shield you use is fine. It’ll be focused on me.” 

Merlin nodded once. He had no problems with observing.

Geralt knelt on the stone floor and placed the book in front of him. He inhaled deeply and with a quick gesture lit a flame.

Just before the whole book really caught on fire, Geralt hissed and flicked his wrist, pushing Merlin back against a table with an invisible force, and growled, “He’s coming. If you don’t want to reveal yourself, stay back, shut up, and make it so he can’t see you. I can protect him, but it’ll be difficult.”

“How do you,” Merlin started, but the force shoved him back again and Geralt rose to one knee, grim.

“If you don’t want questions about why you’re here, then shut up.” He inhaled deeply, then drew the sword that glinted silver in the dim light.

The door banged open to reveal Arthur, sword drawn, just as Geralt climbed to his feet with a fiery glint in his eyes. “Hey—“ Arthur started, to the tune of Merlin’s instantaeous panic attack, but then an unearthly wail echoed around the room.

Just above the flaming book a ghastly figure appeared. It was near-see through, glowing greyish green: a woman dressed in rags with light streaming from her fingers. “Fuck,” said Geralt. He twisted his sword and moved in front of Arthur.

“I told you—“ Arthur started, but the wraith shrieked and passed _straight through Geralt_ to throw Arthur into the wall.

Merlin was frozen in silence. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even be seen, but he _had to protect Arthur_ —

Arthur wheezed, choking; Geralt thrust a hand out, made two signs with his fingers. The first threw Arthur back flat against the wall, and the second erected a glowing golden shield around him. The wraith bounced off it with a scream and turned back to Geralt.

Arthur’s eyes were wide from where he was plastered against the wall as Geralt fought the wraith. Both moved faster than humanly possible—the wraith screeched and dove, Geralt rolled out of the way, twisted a hand to ward the ground around him.

Then the wraith broke through and hurled Geralt into a stack of chairs. “Fuck,” he rasped, struggling to pull himself up from the pile of broken chairs.

His hand dove into the pouch at his side and withdrew a small glass vial. He plucked out the cork with his teeth before downing the entire potion and tossing the vial aside with a tinkle of breaking glass. The wraith suddenly reappeared with a shriek, and Geralt threw down a ward just before it reached him. It slowed, blinking rapidly; he was able to get a few hits in before it flickered away.

Arthur made a high-pitched sound and dropped his sword.

When Geralt turned around, Merlin, too, gasped; his eyes were completely black, and the veins around his eyes were turning blueish-black like spiderwebs over his face. But he gripped his sword firmly, moving like he hadn’t just broken a stack of chairs with his back.

After that, the fight moved in a flash. Geralt somehow managed to keep Arthur shielded while battling the wraith, and Arthur remained plastered to the wall out of harm’s way. One more slash with the silver sword—the wraith shrieked for the last time and shrank to the floor. Geralt glanced to Arthur, releasing the golden shield with a wave of his hand, though he sagged somewhat once he did so.

“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur breathed out, his face white.

“No,” said Geralt, cracking his neck from side to side. “I’m a witcher.” 

The two stood across from each other in silence.

“If you try to fight me now, I’ll win. Try not to hurt you too much but it won’t be pretty.” Geralt sheathed his silver sword, but his hand lingered over the second sword hilt as he watched Arthur closely. He was tensed more than he had been before their mock-spar, though whether it was leftover adrenaline from the fight or an aftereffect of whatever concoction he’d taken, no one knew.

Arthur’s eyes were wide, and though Merlin couldn’t see Geralt’s face, he knew Arthur was staring at the black eyes and black veins crawling over his skin. “I—you saved my life,” he said in wonderment.

Geralt relaxed and rolled his shoulder back. “Yeah. Am I gonna have to fight my way out, or can I collect my reward and leave without fucking over everyone?”

“You have my apologies, Geralt. I should not have underestimated you.” Arthur swallowed, then extended his hand. “You have my word I will not turn you in.”

A little hope bloomed in Merlin’s chest.

“Damn right you shouldn’t have,” Geralt muttered, but he clasped Arthur’s hand anyway.

Merlin exhaled and finally slumped against the wall. Geralt snorted faintly like he’d heard—he probably had, but Merlin couldn’t bring himself to care.

Then Geralt said nothing more. He whipped out the same hunting knife he’d used on the basilisk and took the wraith’s head with swift, efficient strokes that spoke of years of practice. Both Arthur and Merlin watched in fascination as he wrapped it up like he had the other. Moments after he did so, the rest of the wraith’s body crumbled into fine dust. Arthur kept quiet too, until Geralt made to leave the room. Merlin had known Arthur long enough to know he wanted to ask a great many questions but didn’t want to disturb Geralt.

Finally, they slipped into the hall. Geralt didn’t bother checking for any guards, though Arthur did. Merlin followed them down the hall once he was sure his invisibility had held for sure. He’d have to tell Gaius about this spell, he thought.

Arthur drew in a deep breath once they were out. Then, tentatively, “Would you really have fought all my father’s guards?”

“Yeah. Done it before, more than once,” Geralt said, sour. “Where I’m from, people don’t like freaks and mutants.”

Arthur peered at him. “Freaks? Is that what you are, what witchers are? If you’re not a witch, that is.”

“We’re mutants. Heightened senses, immune to poison, stronger, faster than ordinary humans.” Geralt shrugged. “Fight monsters for coin.”

“But how—” Arthur made a strangled sound and jerked his hand.

Geralt hummed low, seeming to understand what Arthur couldn’t say. “Part of the mutations.”

“And the—"

“Poison,” Geralt said dryly.

Merlin wanted to know more about the potions, but Arthur seemed to have reached his magic-question quota for the day and didn’t say anything else before they all went their separate ways—Arthur to his quarters, Geralt to his, and Merlin back down to Gaius. 

Any hopes Merlin might have had about sneaking in to bed were dashed by Gaius’ presence in a chair before the fireplace. “Merlin,” said Gaius, steepling his fingers, “did you have a good time _taking care of yourself_?”

Merlin slunk in and settled, drooping, on an old wobbly stool. “Yes,” he said flatly.

Gaius raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like you had fun.”

“Arthur found us,” Merlin said, “and Geralt fought with magic.”

“Ah.”

“And,” Merlin pushed on, “apparently he’s something called a _witcher_. They kill monsters.”

“Ah,” Gaius said again. He hefted a thick tome in one hand. “I wondered about that.” He flipped through and read aloud, “’Witchers are made stronger than humans, twisted and mutated to fight even the most vicious of beasts. Their senses process stimuli far beyond an ordinary human. One may recognize them by their two swords and their yellow eyes…’” Gaius glanced up and stared at Merlin. “Roughly translated, of course. Sound familiar?”

Merlin squinted to see the title of the book. “Where’d you _find_ that?”

“I had an… enlightening trip to the library earlier. Geoffrey and I got to talking.” Gaius closed the book and set it aside. He leaned forward, looking Merlin straight in the eyes, and said, “Did Arthur see you?”

“No, it was—Geralt shielded him, I didn’t have time to do anything.” Merlin briefly described the fight to an increasingly incredulous Gaius, leaving out the parts about Geralt threatening to fight the entire guard garrison to get out of Camelot.

“Good lord,” said Gaius when Merlin was finished. “He wasn’t jesting when he said Arthur could never handle it.”

“That’s what started the fight yesterday,” Merlin admitted. “Arthur didn’t listen and thought he knew better. But I guess he knows better now.”

#

Arthur got Geralt an audience with the king first thing in the morning, and Merlin tagged along to watch—he’d already heard the uncensored version of the previous night’s events, which stuck surprisingly close to the truth. Uther took the news of the wraith’s presence in the castle and subsequent death with surprising ease, especially as Arthur spun a tale of strength and bravery without once hinting to the magical element that had truly saved the day.

Arthur subtly suggested that he had only the faintest part in the battle—a part which had been entirely nonexistent, Merlin thought—and concentrated instead on Geralt’s struggle with the ghost. Geralt shifted uncomfortably, like he was uneasy with being praised instead of kicked out of town.

“Well,” Uther said, when Arthur was finished.

“Your majesty,” Geralt said before Uther could go on. He raised the wraith’s head and nodded to one of the guards, who hesitantly came and took it.

Merlin thought he saw Uther’s nose crinkle, but of course the king would never admit to being disgusted by anything so small as a ghost’s remains. “You have once again earned your coin,” Uther said, and someone appeared with a sack of gold for Geralt.

Beside Uther, Arthur had stiffened, staring straight ahead to avoid looking at Geralt. Anyone else might have thought he was still bitter, but Merlin rather thought Arthur had put all that behind him in light of the night prior. Instead, he was likely trying to avoid saying anything about… magic.

This time, Geralt did bow, slightly, with a faint curl of his lips. “Thanks. Need to be on my way, other contracts to pick up. Places to be.”

Merlin privately thought Geralt probably didn’t have anywhere better to go. So when they were dismissed and Geralt headed down to the stables, Arthur gave Merlin a significant look before trailing after him.

Merlin took this to mean he was to follow.

They met up in the stables, where Geralt was busy saddling up his horse. Each strap was tightened and tied with brisk efficiency. The horse—Roach, Merlin remembered—nipped at his fingers with a soft nicker. 

“Stay safe,” Merlin said, though he felt it was probably unnecessary.

Geralt let out a soft huff, seeming unsurprised to see them. “Don’t need to tell me twice.” He eyed Merlin, tipping his chin up a little. _You too_ , the look seemed to say.

Arthur cleared his throat, unaware of the silent exchange. “Good luck on your travels.”

“Hmm.” Geralt lightly tugged on Roach’s reins, and she followed him placidly out of the stall. He paused, then said to Arthur, “Glad I didn’t have to fight my way out.”

Merlin nearly agreed before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to have personally witnessed the battle with the wraith.

Geralt said nothing more, just made sure everything was fastened to his saddle properly before heading off to the street. He didn’t mount yet, which Merlin thought was quite sensible of him, and instead led Roach away.

They remained silent for a few minutes, watching Geralt pick his way through the street, and when he had turned the corner Arthur glanced over at Merlin. “So, er—did you know beforehand—he has—”

Merlin let him suffer for a moment before prodding in a low voice, “Magic? Yeah. I saw him use it to light the basilisk on fire.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “And you didn’t think so say anything?”

Merlin threw up his hands. “You were the one who didn’t see anything wrong with turning a friend in for being a sorceress!” 

Arthur stared at him, astonished, and muttered, “That’s what you were so worked up about? I never said I approved—"

“How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to get upset!”

Merlin wanted to throttle him.

At least, he thought, they would be done with witchers for awhile, if not forever. Camelot was no place for monster hunters with magic. 


End file.
